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Leonard was very Fond of that Picture. 



THE STORY OF A 


SHORT LIFE 

BV 

/ 

JULIANA HORATIA EWING 

r t 

AUTHOR OF " JACKANAPES ” “ DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT ’’ ETC. 


EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

By THOMAS M. BALLIET 

SUPERINTENDENT OF SCHOOLS SPRINGFIELD MASS. 



ILLUSTRATED BY A. F. SCHMITT 




BOSTON, U.S.A. 

D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 

1900 


I 

I 


56909 


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7 


jLiOrfciry of Con#r«*s 
) V.; ^ OPItS RtCtIveO 

OCT 5 1900 

Cftfynght wtry 

c,To#^:ra 

K» .4??: . .*?. .V^^. <?• •• ■ 
SECOND COfY. 

Of‘'v«»re^ to 

OKOtR DIVISION. 

_0CT P.3 IflOtL 


COPYRIGHT, 1900 

By D. C. Heath & Co. 


PREFACE. 


This touching little story is much less familiar to American 
boys and girls than it deserves to be, and its publication in 
this series will form an important addition to our available 
literature for children. The heroic in our nature and the in- 
stinct of hero-worship are especially strong in youth, and 
appear in one form or another even in the later years of 
childhood. The gratification and at the same time the en- 
nobling of this instinct is an important function of juvenile 
literature. It is here where this little story will accomplish its 
mission. Its heroism and its pathos are of a character to touch 
this side of child nature and to spiritualize it. 

The text has been slightly abbreviated in order to fit the 
book better for the double purpose of home and school 
reading. 

The thought of the story is no more difficult than the lan- 
guage, and the book may safely be given to any boy or girl for 
whom the mechanical difficulties of the language are not too 
great. As a reading book in school, it will probably be found 
best adapted for use with classes of the sixth or seventh year 
of school. 


THOMAS M. BALLIET. 


“ But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 

And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorfed shears 
And slits the thin spun life, — ‘ But not the praise.’ ” 

— Milton. 


LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 


“ Leonard was very fond of that picture ” . F^'ontispiece 

“ ‘ Like a picture in my Tales from Froissart ’ ” . 

“ ‘ I cannot go if Sweep is to be left behind ’ ” 

“ ‘ He carries me so comfortably ’ ” . . . . . 

AND SIXTEEN SMALLER PICTURES IN THE TEXT 


PAGE 


9 

23 

41 


“ It is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to heroic 
action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense, — sugar-plums of 
any kind in this world or the next! In the meanest mortal there 
lies something nobler. . . . Difficulty, abnegation, martyrdom, 
death are the allurements that act on the heart of man. Kindle 
the inner genial life of him, you have a flame that burns up all 
lower considerations. . . . Not by flattering our appetites; no, by 
awakening the Heroic that slumbers in every heart.” — CARLYLE. 


VI 



The Story of a Short Life. 

CHAPTER I. 

“Arma virumque cano.” — ^neid. 

‘^Man — and the horseradish — are most biting when grated.” 

Jean Paul Richter. 

“ Most annoying ! ” said the Master of the House, 
who was frowning fiercely, when his elbow was softly 
touched by his little son. 

Put your hands down, Leonard ! Put your tongue in, 
sir ! What are you after } What do you want } What 
are you doing here } Be off to the nursery, and tell Je- 
mima to keep you there. Your mother and I are busy.” 

Far behind the boy, on the wall, hung the portrait of 
one of his ancestors — a youth of sixteen. The painting 
was by Vandyck, and it was the most valuable of the 
many valuable things that strewed and decorated the 
room. A very perfect example of the great master’s 
work, and uninjured by Time. The young Cavalier’s 
face was more interesting than handsome, but so eager 
and refined that, set off as it was by pale-hued satin and 

Arma . . . cano : Arms and the man I sing. 

Vandyck : a famous Belgian portrait painter, b. 1599, d. 1641. 


B 


2 


The Story of a Short Life. 

falling hair, he might have been called effeminate, if his 
brief life, which ended on the field of Naseby, had not 
done more than common to prove his manhood. A 
coat-of-arms, blazoned in the corner of the painting, 
had some appearance of having been added later. 
Below this was rudely inscribed, in yellow paint, the 
motto which also decorated the elaborate stone mantle- 
piece opposite — Lcetiis sorte mea. 

Leonard was very fond of that picture. It was known 
to his childish affections as “Uncle Rupert.” He con- 
stantly wished that he could get into the frame and play 
with the dog — the dog with the upturned face and mel- 
ancholy eyes, and odd resemblance to a long-haired Cav- 
alier — on whose faithful head Uncle Rupert’s slender 
fingers perpetually reposed. 

Though not able to play with the dog, Leonard did 
play with Uncle Rupert — the game of trying to get out 
of the reach of his eyes. 

“ I play ‘ Puss-in-th e-corner ’ with him,” the child was 
wont to explain ; “ but whichever corner I get into, his 
eyes come after me. The dog looks at Uncle Rupert 
always, and Uncle Rupert always looks at me.” 

... “To see if you are growing up a good boy and 
a gallant young gentleman, such as he was.” So Leon- 
ard’s parents and guardians explained the matter to him, 
and he devoutly believed them. 

Many an older and less credulous spectator stood in 
the light of those painted eyes, and acknowledged their 
spell. Very marvellous was the cunning which, by 
dabs and streaks of color, had kept the spirit of this 

Naseby : a battle was fought here in 1645 between the soldiers of King 
Charles I. and the Parliamentarians. 

Cavaliers : were the soldiers of King Charles. 


Word and Honor. 


3 


long dead youth to gaze at his descendants from a sheet 
of canvas and stir the sympathy of strangers, parted by 
more than two centuries from his sorrows, with the mock 
melancholy of painted tears. For whether the painter 
had just overdone some trick of representing their liquid- 
ness, or whether the boy’s eyes had brimmed over as he 
was standing for his portrait (his father and elder brother 
had died in the civil war before him), there remains no 
tradition to tell. But Vandyck never painted a portrait 
fuller of sad dignity, even in those troubled times. 

Happily for his elders, Leonard invented for himself 
a reason for the obvious tears. 

“I believe Uncle Rupert knew that they were going 
to chop the poor King’s head off, and that’s why he 
looks as if he were going to cry.” 

It was partly because the child himself looked as if 
he were going to cry — and that not fractiously, but 
despite a struggle with himself — that, as he stood be- 
fore the Master of the House, he might have been that 
other rnaster of the same house come to life again at six 
years of age. His long, fair hair, the pliable, nervous 
fingers, which he had put down as he was bid, the 
strenuous tension of his little figure under a sense of 
injustice, and, above all, his beautiful eyes, in which the 
tears now brimmed over the eyelashes as the waters of 
a lake well up through the reeds that fringe its banks. 
He was very very like Uncle Rupert when he turned 
those eyes on his mother in mute reproach. 

Lady Jane came to his defence. 

I think Leonard meant to be good. I made him 
promise me to try and cure himself of the habit of 
speaking to you when you are speaking to some one 

The poor King : Charles I. of England. 


4 


The Story of a Short Life. 


else. But, dear Leonard ” (and she took the hand that 
had touched his father’s elbow), “ I don’t think you 
were quite on honor when you interrupted Father with 
this hand, though you were holding your tongue with 
the other. That is what we call keeping a promise to 
the ear and breaking it to the sense.” 

All the Cavalier dignity came unstarched in Leon- 
ard’s figure. With a red face, he answered bluntly, 
“ I’m very sorry. I meant to keep my promise.” 

“ Next time keep it well^ as a gentleman should. 
Now, what do you want ” 

“ Pencil and paper, please.” 

“ There they are. Take them to the nursery, as 
Father told you.” 

Leonard looked at his father. He had not been spoilt 
for six years by an irritable and indulgent parent with- 
out learning those arts of diplomacy in which children 
quickly become experts. 

“ Oh, he can stay,” said the Master of the House, 
“ and he may say a word now and then, if he doesn’t 
talk too much. Boys can’t sit mumchance always 
— can they, Len } There ; kiss your poor old father, 
and get away, and keep quiet.” 

Lady Jane made one of many fruitless efforts on 
behalf of discipline. 

“ I think, dear, as you told him to go, he had better 
go now.” 

“He will go, pretty sharp, if he isn’t good. Now, 
for pity’s sake, let’s talk out this affair, and let me get 
back to my work.” 

“ Have you been writing poetry this morning. Father 
dear .? ” Leonard inquired, urbanely. 

He was now lolling against a writing-table of the first 


Cross Questions and Crooked Answers. 5 

empire, where sheets of paper lay like fallen leaves 
among Japanese bronzes, old and elaborate candlesticks, 
grotesque letter-clips and paper weights, quaint pottery, 
big seals, and spring flowers in slender Venetian glasses 
of many colors. 

“ I wrote three lines, and was interrupted four times,” 
replied his sire, with bitter brevity. 

“ I think ril write some poetry. I don’t mind being 
interrupted. May I have your ink } ” 

“ No, you may not ! ” roared the Master of the House 
and of the inkpot of priceless china which Leonard had 
seized. “ Now, be off to the nursery ! ” 

“ I won’t touch anything. I am going to draw out of 
the window,” said Leonard, calmly. 

He had practised the art of being troublesome to the 
verge of expulsion ever since he had had a whim of his 
own, and as skilfully as he played other games. He 
was seated among the cushions of the oriel window-seat 
(colored rays from coat-of-arms in the upper panes fall- 
ing on his fair hair with a fanciful effect of canonizing 
him for his sudden goodness) almost before his father 
could reply. 

“ I advise you to stay there, and to keep quiet.” Lady 
Jane took up the broken thread of conversation in 
despair. 

“ Have you ever seen him ? ” 

'‘Yes; years ago.” 

“ You know I never saw either. Your sister was much 
older than you ; wasn’t she ? ” 

“ The shadows move so on the grass ^ and the elms have 
so many branches, I think I shall turn round and draw the 
fireplace,'" murmured Leonard. 

“Ten years. You may be sure, if I had been grown 


6 


The Story of a Short Life. 


up I should never have allowed the marriage. I cannot 
think what possessed my father — ” 

“ / am doing the inscription ! I catt print Old Eng- 
lish. What does L. diphthong T. U. S. mean ? ” said 
Leonard. 

It means joy fid, contented, happy.— I was at Eton at 
the time. Disastrous ill-luck ! ” 

“ Are there any children } ” 

‘‘ One son. And to crown all, his regiment is at 
Asholt. Nice family party ! ” 

“ A young man ! Has he been well brought up } ” 

“ What does — ” 

“ Will you keep quiet, Leonard? — Is he likely to 
have been well brought up } However, he’s ‘ in the 
Service,’ as they say.” 

“ I have so many military belongings, both in the 
past and the present, that I have a respect for the 
Service — ” 

He got up, and patted her head, and smiled. 

“I beg your pardon my child. Et ego — ” and he 
looked at Uncle Rupert, who looked sadly back again: 
“ but you must make allowances for me. Asholt Camp 
has been a thorn in my side from the first. And now 
to have the Barrack Master, and the youngest subaltern 
of a marching regiment — ” 

“ He’s our nephew, Rupert ! ” 

“Mine — not yours. You’ve nothing to do with 
him, thank goodness.” 

“ Your people are my people. Now do not worry 
yourself. Of course I shall call on your sister at once. 
Will they be here for some time } ” 

“ Five years, you may depend. He’s just the sort 

Etego: and I. 


Cross Questions and Crooked Answers. 7 

of man to wedge himself into a snug berth at Asholt. 
You’re an angel, Jane; you always are. But fighting 
ancestors are one thing, a barrack master brother-in- 
law is another.” 

“ Has he done any fighting ? ” 

“ Oh dear, yes ! Bemedalled like that Guy Fawkes 
General in the pawnbroker’s window, that Len was so 
charmed by. But, my dear, I assure you — ” 

“ / onfy just want to know what S. O. R. T. E. 
M. E. A. means E Leonard hastily broke in. 
done it all noiv, and shan't want to know anything more." 

“ Sorte mea is Latm for My fate^ or My lot in life. 
Lcetns sorte mea, means Happy is my lot. It is onr fam- 
ily motto. Now, if yojc ask ajiother question, off you go ! — 
After all, Jane, you must allow it’s about as hard lines 
as could be, to have a few ancestral acres and a nice 
old place in one of the quietest, quaintest corners of 
Old England ; and for Government to come and plant 
a Camp of Instruction, as they call it, and pour in tribes 
of savages in war-paint to build wigwams within a 
couple of miles of your lodge-gates ! ” 

She laughed heartily. 

“Dear Rupert! You are a born poet! You do 
magnify your woes so grandly. What was the brother- 
in-law like when you saw him } ” 

“Oh, the regular type. Hair cut like a pauper, or 
a convict ” (the Master of the House tossed his own locks 
as he spoke), “ big, swaggering sort of fellow, swallowed 
the poker and not digested it, rather good features, 
acclimatized complexion, tight fit of hot-red cloth, and 
general pipeclay.” 

“ Then he must be the Sapper !" Leonard announced 
as he advanced with a firm step and kindling eyes 


8 


The Story of a Short Life. 


from the window. “Jemima’s other brother is a Gun- 
ner. He dresses in blue. But they both pipeclay their 
gloves, and I pipeclayed mine this morning, when she 
did the hearth. You’ve no idea how nasty they look 
whilst it’s wet, but they dry as white as snow, only 
mine fell among the cinders. The Sapper is very kind, 
both to her and to me. He gave her a brooch, and he 
is making me a wooden fort to put my cannon in. But 
the Gunner is such a funny man ! I said to him, ‘ Gun- 
ner ! why do you wear white gloves } ’ and he said, 
‘Young gentleman, why does a miller wear a white 
hat } ’ He’s very funny. But I think I like the tidy 
one best of all. He is so very beautiful, and I should 
think he must be brave.” 

“ This is nice ! ” said the Master of the House between 
his teeth with a deepened scowl. 

The air felt stormy, and Leonard began to coax. He 
laid his curls against his father’s arm, and asked, “ Did 
you ever see a tidy one^ Father dear.? He is a very 
splendid sort of man.” 

“ What nonsense are you talking ? What do you 
mean by a tidy one ? ” 

There was no mistake about the storm now; and 
Leonard began to feel helpless, and, as usual in such 
circumstances, turned to Lady Jane. 

“ Mother told me ! ” he gasped. 

The Master of the House also turned to Lady Jane. 

“ Do you mean you have heard of this before .? ” 

She shook her head, and he seized his son by the 
shoulder. 

“ If that woman has taught you to tell untruths — ” 

Lady Jane firmly interposed. 

“ Leonard never tells untruths, Rupert. Please don’t 



Like a Picture in my Tales from Froissart. 


9 


lo The Story of a Short Life. 

frighten him into doing so. Now, Leonard, don’t be 
foolish and cowardly. Tell Mother quite bravely all 
about it. Perhaps she has forgotten.” 

The child was naturally brave, but was unnerved 
now ; and, even with his hand in that of his mother, he 
stammered over his story with ill-repressed sobs and 
much mental confusion. 

“We — we met him out walking. I m — mean we 
were out walking. He was out riding. He looked like 
a picture in my t — t — tales from Froissart. He had 
a very curious kind of a helmet — n — not quite a hel- 
met, and a beautiful green feather — at least, n — not 
exactly a feather and a beautiful red waistcoat, only 
n — not a real waistcoat, b — but — ” 

“ Send him to bed ! ” roared the Master of the House. 
“ Don’t let him prevaricate any more ! ” 

“No, Rupert, please! I wish him to try and give a 
straight account. Now, Leonard, don’t be a baby; but 
go on and tell the truth, like a brave boy.” 

Leonard desperately proceeded, sniffing as he did so. 

“ He c — carried a spear, like an old warrior. He 
truthfully did. On my honor ! One end was on the 
tip of his foot, and there was a flag at the other end — 
a real fluttering pennon — there truthfully was! He 
does poke with his spear in battle, I do believe ; but 
he didn’t poke us. He was b — b — beautiful to b — b 
— be — hold! I asked Jemima, ‘Is he another brother, 
for you do have such very nice brothers.?’ ‘No, 
he’s — ’” 

Hang Jemima!” said the Master of the House. 
“ Now listen to me. You said your mother told you. 
What did she tell you .? ” 

“Je — Je — Jemima said, ‘No, he’s a’ Orderly;’ and 


With Burnished Brand and Musketoon. 1 1 

asked the way — I qu — quite forget where to — I 
truthfully do. And next morning I asked Mother 
what does Orderly mean And she said tidy. So I 
called him the tidy one. Dear Mother, you truthfully 
did — at least,” added Leonard, chivalrously, as Lady 
Jane’s face gave no response, “at least, if you’ve for- 
gotten, never mind : it’s my fault.” 

But Lady Jane’s face was blank because she was try- 
ing not to laugh. The Master of the House did not try 
long. He bit his lip, and then burst into a peal. 

“Better say no more to him,” murmured Lady Jane. 
“ I’ll see Jemima now, if he may stay with you.” 

He nodded, and throwing himself back on the couch, 
held out his arms to the child. 

“ Well, that’ll do. Put these men out of your head, 
and let me see your drawing.” 

Leonard stretched his faculties, and perceived that the 
storm was overpast. He clambered on to his father’s 
knee, and their heads were soon bent lovingly together 
over the much-smudged sheet of paper, on which the 
motto from the chimney-piece was irregularly traced. 

“You should have copied it from Uncle Rupert’s 
picture. It is in plain letters there.” 

Leonard made no reply. His head now lay back on 
his father’s shoulder, and his eyes were fixed on the 
ceiling, which was of Elizabethan date, with fantastic 
flowers in raised plaster-work. But Leonard did not 
see them at that moment. His vision was really turned 
inwards. Presently he said, “I am trying to think. 
Don’t interrupt me. Father, if you please.” 

The Master of the House smiled, and gazed compla- 
cently at the face beside him. No painting, no china 
in his possession, was more beautiful. Suddenly the 


12 The Story of a Short Life. 

boy jumped down and stood alone, with his hands 
behind his back, and his eyes tightly shut. 

“I am thinking very hard. Father. Please tell me 
again what our motto means.” 

Lcetus sorte mea, — Happy in my lot.’ What are 
you puzzling your little brains about t ” ■ 

“ Because I know I know something so like it, and I 
can’t think what! Yes — no! Wait a minute! I’ve 
just got it ! Yes, I remember now : it was my Wednes- 
day text ! ” 

He opened wide shining eyes, and clapped his hands, 
and his clear voice rang with the added note of triumph, 
as he cried, “ ‘ The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground. 
Yea, I have a goodly heritage.’ ” 

The Master of the House held out his arms without 
speaking ; but when Leonard had climbed back into 
them, he stroked the child’s hair slowly, and said, “ Is 
that your Wednesday text } ” 

“ Last Wednesday’s. I learn a text every day. 
Jemima sets them. She says her grandmother made 
her learn texts when she was a little girl. Now, Father 
dear. I’ll tell you what I wish you would do : and I want 
you to do it at once — this very minute.” 

“That is generally the date of your desires. What is 
it.?” 

“ I don’t know what you are talking about, but I know 
what I want. Now you and I are all alone to our very 
selves, I want you to come to the organ, and put that 
text to music like the anthem you made out of those 
texts Mother chose for you, for the harvest festival. I’ll 
tell you the words, for fear you don’t quite remember 
them, and I’ll blow the bellows. You may play on all- 
fours with both your feet and hands ; you may pull out 


The Lot is Cast into the Lap. 13 

trumpet handle, you may make as much noise as ever 
you like — you’ll see how I’ll blow ! ” 

* * ^ ^ MU * 

Satisfied by the sounds of music that the two were 
happy, Lady Jane was in no haste to go back to the 
library ; but when she did return, Leonard greeted her 
warmly. 

He was pumping at the bellows handle of the cham- 
ber organ, before which sat the Master of the House, 
not a ruffle on his brow, playing with “ all-fours,” and 
singing as he played. 

Leonard’s cheeks were flushed, and he cried impa- 
tiently, — 

“Mother! Mother dear! I’ve been wanting you 
ever so long ! Father has set my text to music, and I 
want you to hear it ; but I want to sit by him and sing, 
too. So you must come and blow.” 

“Nonsense, Leonard! Your mother must do noth- 
ing of the sort. Jane! listen to this! — In a fa — air 
gron — nd. Bit of pure melody, that, eh .? The land 
flowing with milk and honey seems to stretch before 
one’s eyes — ” 

“No, Father, that is unfair. You are not to tell her 
bits in the middle. Begin at the beginning, and — 
Mother dear, will you blow, and let me sing 

“ Certainly. Yes, Rupert, please. I’ve done it before ; 
and my back isn’t aching to-day. Do let me ! ” 

“Yes, do let her,” said Leonard, conclusively ; and he 
swung himself up into the seat beside his father without 
more ado. 

“ Now, Father, begin ! Mother, listen ! And when it 
comes to ' Yea,' and I pull trumpet handle out, blow as 


The Story of a Short Life. 


14 

hard as ever you can. This first bit — when he only 
plays — is very gentle, and quite easy to blow.” 

Deep breathing of the organ filled a brief silence, then 
a prelude stole about the room. Leonard’s eyes devoured 
his father’s face, and the Master of the House looking 
. down on him, with the double complacency of father and 
composer, began to sing : — 

“‘The lot — the lot is fallen un-to me;’” and, his 
mouth wide-parted with smiles, Leonard sang also 
“ ‘ The lot — the lot is fallen — fallen unto me. 

“ ‘ In a fa — air grou — nd. 

“‘Yea! (Now, Mother dear, blow! and fancy you 
hear trumpets !) 

“ ‘ Yea ! YEA ! I have a good-ly Her — i — tage ! ’ ” 

And after Lady Jane had ceased to blow, and the 
musician to make music, Leonard still danced and sang 
wildly about the room. 

“Isn’t it splendid. Mother.? Father and I made it 
together out of my Wednesday text. Uncle Rupert, 
can you hear it .? I don’t think you can. I believe you 
are dead and deaf, though you seem to see.” 

And standing face to face with the young Cavalier, 
Leonard sang his Wednesday text all through : — 

“ ‘ The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground ; yea, I 
have a goodly heritage.’ ” 

But Uncle Rupert spoke no word to his kinsman, 
though he still “ seemed to see ” through eyes drowned 
in tears. 




CHAPTER II. 

“ Ut migraturus habita ” (“ Dwell as if about to depart ”). 

Old House Motto. 

The Barrack Master’s wife was standing in the porch 
of her hut, the sides of which were of the simplest trellis- 
work of crossed fir-poles, through which she could watch 
the proceedings of the gardener without baking'herself in 
the sun. Suddenly she snatched up a green-lined white 
umbrella, that had seen service in India, and ran out. 

“O’Reilly! what is that baby doing.? There I that 
white-headed child crossing the parade with a basket in 
its little arms I It’s got nothing on its head. Please go 
and take it to its mother before it gets sunstroke.” 

The gardener was an Irish soldier — an old soldier, 
as the handkerchief depending from his cap, to protect 
the nape of his neck from the sun, bore witness. He 
was a tall man, and stepped without ceremony over the 
garden paling to get a nearer view of the parade. But 
he stepped back again at once, and resumed his place 
in the garden. 

“ He’s Corporal Macdonald’s child. Madam. The 
Blind Baby, they call him. Not a bit of harm will he 
get. They’re as hard as nails the whole lot of them. 
If I was to take him in now, he’d be out before my back 

15 


1 6 The Story of a Short Life. 

was turned. His brothers and sisters are at the school, 
and Blind Baby’s just as happy as the day is long, play- 
ing at funerals all the time.” 

“ Blind ! Is he blind ? Poor little soul ! But he’s 
got a great round potato-basket in his arms. Surely 
they don’t make that afflicted infant fetch and carry 

O’Reilly laughed so heartily, that he scandalized his 
own sense of propriety. 

“ I ask your pardon. Madam. But there’s no fear 
that Blind Baby’ll fetch and carry. Every man in the 
Lines is his nurse.” 

“ But what’s he doing with that round hamper as big 
as himself } ” 

“It’s just a make-believe for the Big Drum, Madam. 
The Dead March is his whole delight. ’Twas only yes- 
terday I said to his father, ‘ Corporal,’ I says ; ‘ we’ll 
live to see Blind Baby a band-master yet,’ I says ; ‘ it’s 
a pure pleasure to see him beat out a tune with his 
closed fist.’ ” 

He ceased speaking, and bent again to his work, 
which was why he failed to see what the Barrack 
Master’s wife saw, and did not for some moments dis- 
cover that she was no longer in the garden. The mat- 
ter was this : — 

The Barrack Master’s quarters were close to the Iron 
Church, and the straight road that ran past both was 
crossed, just beyond the church, by another straight 
road, which finally led out to and joined a country high- 
way. From this highway an open carriage and pair 
were being driven into the Camp as a soldier’s funeral 
was marching to church. The band frightened the 
horses, who were got past with some difficulty, and 
having turned the sharp corner, were coming rapidly 


Blood is Thicker than Water. 17 

towards the Barrack Master’s hut when Blind Baby, 
excited by the band, strayed from his parade-ground, 
tumbled, basket and all, into the ditch that divided it 
from the road, picked up himself and his basket, and 
was sturdily setting forth across the road just as the 
frightened horses came plunging to the spot. 

The Barrack Master’s wife was not very young, and 
not very slender. Rapid movements were not easy to 
her. She was nervous also, and could never afterwards 
remember what she did with herself in those brief 
moments before she became conscious that the footman 
had got to the horses’ heads, and that she herself was 
almost under their feet, with Blind Baby in her arms. 
Blind Baby himself recalled her to consciousness by the 
ungrateful fashion in which he pummelled his deliverer 
with his fists and howled for his basket, which had 
rolled under the carriage to add to the confusion. Nor 
was he to be pacified till O’Reilly took him from her 
arms. 

By this time men had rushed from every hut and 
kitchen, wash-place and shop, and were swarming to the 
rescue, and through the whole disturbance, like minute- 
guns, came the short barks of a black puppy, which 
Leonard had insisted upon taking with him to show to 
his aunt despite the protestations of his mother : for it 
was Lady Jane’s carriage, and this was how the sisters 
met. 

They had been sitting together for some time, so 
absorbed by the strangeness and the pleasure of their 
new relations that Leonard and his puppy had slipped 
away unobserved, when Lady Jane, who was near the 
window, called to her sister-in-law : — “ Adelaide, tell 
c 


1 8 The Story of a Short Life. 

me, my dear, is this Colonel Jones?” She spoke with 
some trepidation. It is so easy for those unacquainted 
with uniforms to make strange blunders. Moreover, 
the Barrack Master, though soldierly looking, was so, 
despite a very unsoldier ly defect. He was exceedingly 
stout, and as he approached the miniature garden-gate, 
Lady Jane found herself gazing with some anxiety to 
see if he could possibly get through. 

But O’Reilly did not make an empty boast when he 
said that a soldier’s eye was true. The Colonel came 
quite neatly through the toy entrance, knocked nothing 
down in the porch, bent and bared his head with one 
gesture as he passed under the drawing-room door-way, 
and bowing again to Lady Jane, moved straight to the 
side of his wife. 

Something in the action — a mixture of dignity and 
devotion, with just a touch of defiance — went to Lady 
Jane’s heart. She went up to him and held out 
both her hands : — “ Please shake hands with me. 
Colonel Jones. I am so very happy to have found a 
sister ! ” In a moment more she turned round, say- 
ing : — “I must show you your nephew. Leonard ! ” 
But Leonard was not there. 

“ I fancy I have seen him already,” said the Colonel. 
“If he is a very beautiful boy, very beautifully dressed 
in velvet, he’s with O’Reilly, watching the funeral.” 

Lady Jane looked horrified, and Mrs. Jones looked 
much relieved. 

“ He’s quite safe if he’s with O’Reilly. But give me 
my sunshade, Henry, please; I dare say Lady Jane 
would like to see the funeral too.” 

Drawn up in accurate line with the edge of the road, 
O’Reilly was standing to salute; and as near to the 


Toll for the Brave. 


19 


Irish private as he could squeeze himself stood the boy, 
his whole body stretched to the closest possible imitation 
of his new and deeply-revered friend, his left arm glued 
to his side, and the back of his little right hand laid 
against his brow, gazing at the pathetic pageant as it 
passed him with devouring eyes. And behind them 
stood Blind Baby, beating upon his basket. 

For the basket had been recovered, and Blind Baby’s 
equanimity also ; and he wandered up and down the 
parade again in the sun, long after the soldier’s funeral 
had wailed its way to the graveyard, over the heather- 
covered hill. 



CHAPTER III. 

No one looked forward to the big Field Day with 
keener interest than Leonard ; and only a few privi- 
leged persons knew more about the arrangements for 
the day than he had contrived to learn. 

O’Reilly was sent over with a note from Mrs. Jones 
to decline the offer of a seat in Lady Jane’s carriage 
for the occasion. She was not very well. Leonard 
waylaid the messenger (whom he hardly recognized as 
a tidy one ! ), and O’Reilly gladly imparted all that he 
knew about the Field Day : and this was a good deal. 
He had it from a friend — a corporal in the Head 
Quarters Office. 

As a rule, Leonard only enjoyed a limited popularity 
with his mother’s visitors. He was very pretty and 
very amusing, and had better qualities even than these ; 
but he was restless and troublesome. On this occasion, 
however, the young ladies suffered him to trample their 
dresses and interrupt their conversation without remon- 
strance. He knew more about the Field Day than any 
one in the house, and, standing among their pretty fur- 
belows and fancywork in stiff military attitudes, he 
imparted his news with an unsuccessful imitation of an 
Irish accent. 


20 


Old Soldiers. 


21 


“O’Reilly says the March Past’ll be at eleven o’clock 
on the Sandy Slopes.” 

“Louisa, is that Major O’Reilly of the Rifles.?” 

“ I don’t know, dear. Is your friend O’Reilly in the 
Rifles, Leonard .? ” 

“I don’t know. I know he’s an owld soldier — he 
told me so.” 

“Old, Leonard; not owld. You mustn’t talk like 
that.” 

“ He does.” 

“ I dare say he did, Louisa. He’s always joking.” 

“ No, he isn’t. He didn’t joke when the funeral went 
past. He looked quite grave, as if he was saying his 
prayers, and stood soT 

“ How touching ! ” 

“ How like him ! ” 

“ How graceful and tender-hearted Irishmen are ! ” 

“ I stood so, too. I mean to do as like him as ever 
I can. I do love him so very very much ! ” 

“ Dear boy ! ” 

“ You good, affectionate little soul ! ” 

“ Give me a kiss, Leonard dear.” 

“ No, thank you. I’m too old for kissing. He’s 
going to march past, and he’s going to look out for me 
with the tail of his eye, and I’m going to look out for 
him.” 

“ Do, Leonard ; and mind you tell us when you see 
him coming.” 

“ I can’t promise. I might forget. But perhaps you 
can know him by the good-conduct stripe on his arm. 
He used to have two; but he lost one all along of St. 
Patrick’s Day.” 

“ That cant be your partner, Louisa ! ” 


22 


The Story of a Short Life. 


“ Officers never have good-conduct stripes.” 

The Master of the House, in arranging for his 
visitors to go to the Field Day, had said that Leonard 
was not to be of the party. He had no wish to encour- 
age the child’s fancy for soldiers: and as Leonard was 
invariably restless out driving, and had a trick of kick- 
ing people’s shins in his changes of mood and position, 
he was a most uncomfortable element in a carriage full 
of ladies. But it is needless to say that he stoutly 
resisted his father’s decree ; and the child’s disappoint- 
ment was so bitter, and he howled and wept himself 
into such a deplorable condition, that the young ladies 
sacrificed their own comfort and the crispness of their 
new dresses to his grief, and petitioned the Master of 
the House that he might be allowed to go. 

The Master of the House gave in. He was accus- 
tomed to yield where Leonard was concerned. But the 
concession proved only a prelude to another struggle. 
Leonard wanted the Black Puppy to go too. 

On this point the young ladies presented no petition. 
Leonard’s boots they had resolved to endure, but not 
the dog’s paws. Lady Jane, too, protested against the 
puppy, and the matter seemed settled ; but at the last 
moment, when all but Leonard were in the carriage, and 
the horses chafing to be off, the child made his appear- 
ance, and stood on the entrance-steps with his puppy in 
his arms, and announced, in dignified sorrow, “ I really 
cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind.” 

With one consent the grown-up people turned to 
look at him. 

A holiday dress of crimson velvet, with collar and 
ruffles of old lace, became him very quaintly; and as 
he laid a cheek like a rose-leaf against the sooty head 



24 


The Story of a Short Life. 

of his pet, and they both gazed piteously at the carriage, 
even Lady Jane’s conscience was stifled by motherly 
pride. He was her only child, but as he said of the 
Orderly, “ a very splendid sort of one.” 

The Master of the House stamped his foot with an 
impatience that was partly real and partly, perhaps, 
affected. 

“Well, get in somehow, if you mean to. The horses 
can’t wait all day for you.” 

To those who know dogs, it is needless to say that the 
puppy showed the utmost discretion. It bore throttling 
without a struggle. Instinctively conscious of the alter- 
native of being shut up in the stable for the day, and 
left there to bark its heart out, it shrank patiently into 
Leonard’s grasp, and betrayed no sign of ‘life except in 
the strained and pleading anxiety which a puppy’s eyes 
so often wear. 

“Your dog is a very good dog, Leonard, I must say,” 
said Louisa Mainwaring ; “ but he’s very ugly. I never 
saw such legs.” 

Leonard tucked the lank black legs under his velvet 
and ruffles. “ Oh, he’s all right,” he said. “ He’ll be 
very handsome soon. It’s his ugly month.” 

“I wonder you didn’t insist on our bringing Uncle 
Rupert and his dog to complete the party,” said the 
Master of the House. 

The notion tickled Leonard, and he laughed so heartily 
that the puppy’s legs got loose, and required to be tucked 
in afresh. Then both remained quiet for several seconds, 
during which the puppy looked as anxious as ever ; but 
Leonard’s face wore a smile of dreamy content that 
doubled its loveliness. 

But as the carriage passed the windows of the library 


Fair laughs the Morn. 25 

a sudden thought struck him, and dispersed his re- 
pose. 

Gripping his puppy firmly under his arm, he sprang 
to his feet — regardless of other people’s — and waving 
his cap and feather above his head he cried aloud. 

Good-bye, Uncle Rupert! Can you hear me.? Uncle 
Rupert, I say ! I am — Icetns — sorte — mea! ” 

******* 

All the Camp was astir. 

Men and bugles awoke with the dawn and the birds, 
and now the women and children of all ranks were on 
the alert. (Nowhere does so large and enthusiastic a 
crowd collect “to see the pretty soldiers go by,” as in 
those places where pretty soldiers live.) 

Soon after gun-fire O’Reilly made his way from his 
own quarters to those of the Barrack Master, opened the 
back-door by some process best known to himself, and 
had been busy for half an hour in the drawing-room 
before his proceedings woke the Colonel. They had 
been as noiseless as possible; but the Colonel’s dressing- 
room opened into the drawing-room, his bedroom opened 
into that, and all the doors and windows were open to 
court the air. 

“ Who’s there .? ” said the Colonel from his pillow. 

“’Tis O’Reilly, Sir. I ask your pardon. Sir; but I 
heard that the Mistress was not well. She’ll be apt to 
want the reclining-chair. Sir; and ’twas damaged in the 
unpacking. I got the screws last night, but I was busy 
soldiering till too late; so I come in this morning, for 
Smith’s no good at a job of the kind at all. He’s a 
butcher to his trade.” 


Soldiering: a barrack term for the furbishing up of accoutrements, etc. 


26 


The Story of a Short Life. 


“Mrs. Jones is much obliged to you for thinking of 
it, O’Reilly.” 

“ ’Tis an honor to oblige her, Sir. I did it sound and 
secure. ’Tis as safe as a rock ; but I’d like to nail a 
bit of canvas on from the porch to the other side of the 
hut, for shelter, in case she’d be sitting out to taste the 
air and see the troops go by. ’Twill not take me five 
minutes, if the hammering wouldn’t be too much for the 
Mistress. ’Tis a hot day. Sir, for certain, till the guns 
bring the rain down.” 

“ Put it up, if you’ve time.” 

“ I will. Sir. I left your sword and gloves on the 
kitchen table, Sir ; and I told Smith to water the rose 
before the sun’s on to it.” 

With which O’Reilly adjusted the cushions of the 
invalid-chair, and having nailed up the bit of canvas 
outside, so as to form an impromptu veranda, he ran 
back to his quarters to put himself into marching order 
for the Field Day. 

The Field Day broke into smiles of sunshine too 
early to be lasting. By breakfast time the rain came 
down without waiting for the guns ; but those most con- 
cerned took the changes of weather cheerfully, as soldiers* 
should. Rain damages uniforms, but it lays dust ; and 
the dust of the Sandy Slopes was dust indeed ! 

After a pelting shower the sun broke forth again, 
and from that time onwards the weather was “ Queen’s 
Weather,” and Asholt was at its best. 

With the sight of every fresh regiment Leonard 
changed his plans for his own future career, and with 
every change he forgot a fresh promise to keep quiet, 
and took by storm that corner of the carriage which for 
the moment offered the best point of view. 


Stand fast, Craigellachie ! 

Suddenly, through the noise and dust, and above 
the dying away of conflicting bands into the distance, 
there came another sound — a sound unlike any other 
— the skirling of the pipes; and Lady Jane sprang 
up and put her arms about her son, and bade him 
watch for the Highlanders, and if Cousin Alan looked 
up as he went past to cry “ Hurrah for Bonnie Scot- 
land ! ” 

For this sound and this sight — the bagpipes and the 
Highlanders — a sandy-faced Scotch lad on the tramp 
to Southampton had waited for an hour past, frowning 
and freckling his face in the sun, and exasperating a 
naturally dojir temper by reflecting on the probable 
pride and heartlessness of folk who wore such soft 
complexions and pretty clothes as the ladies and the 
little boy in the carriage on the other side of the 
road. 

But when the skirling of the pipes cleft the air his 
cold eyes softened as he caught sight of Leonard’s face, 
and the echo that he made to Leonard’s cheer was 
caught up by the good-humored crowd, who gave the 
Scotch regiment a willing ovation as it swung proudly 
by. After which the carriage moved on, and for a time 
Leonard sat very still. He was thinking of Cousin Alan 
and his comrades ; of the tossing plumes that shaded their 
fierce eyes; of the swing of kilt and sporran with their 
unfettered limbs ; of the rhythmic tread of their white 
feet and the fluttering ribbons on the bagpipes ; and of 
Alan’s handsome face looking out of his most becoming 
bravery. 

The result of his meditations Leonard announced with 
his usual lucidity : — 

“ I am Scotch, not Irish, though O’Reilly is the nicest 


28 


The Story of a Short Life. 

man I ever knew. But I must tell him that I really 
cannot grow up into an Owld Soldier, because I mean 
to be a young Highland officer, and look at ladies with 
my eyes like this — and carry my sword so ! 



CHAPTER IV. 

“ Oh that a man might know the end of this day’s business ere it 
comes ! ” — Julius CcBsar. 

As the Barrack Master’s wife could not drive to the 
Field Day, she strolled out to see the troops go by. 
Then the vigor derived from breakfast and the fresh- 
ness of the morning air began to fail, the day grew hot- 
ter, the camp looked dreary and deserted, and, either 
from physical weakness or from some untold cause, a 
nameless anxiety, a sense of trouble in the air, began 
to oppress her. 

Too weary to seek for breezes outside, or to find a 
restful angle of the reclining-chair inside, she folded her 
hands in her lap and abandoned herself to the universal 
remedy for most ills — patience. And Patience was its 
own reward, for she fell asleep. 

She had slept some time — it was now afternoon, and 
the air was full of sounds of the returning bands. She 
went out into the road and saw the Barrack Master (he 
was easy to distinguish at some distance !) pause on his 
homeward way, and then she saw her son running to 
join his father, with his sword under his arm ; and they 
came on together, talking as they came. 

And so as soon as they got within earshot she said, 
“ Have you bad news to tell me } ” 

29 


30 The Story of a Short Life. 

The Colonel ran up and drew her hand within his arm. 

“ Come indoors, dear Love.” 

“You are both well ? ” 

“ Both of us. Brutally so.” 

“ Quite well, dear Mother.” 

Her son was taking her other hand into caressing 
care ; there could be no doubt about the bad news. 

“ Please tell me what it is.” 

“ There has been an accident — ” 

“ To whom ? ” 

“To your brother’s child; that jolly little chap — ” 

“ Oh, Henry ! how ? ” 

“He was standing up in the carriage, I believe, with 
a dog in his arms. George saw him when he went past 
— didn’t you } ” 

“Yes. I wonder he didn’t fall then. I fancy some 
one had told him it was our regiment. The dog was 
struggling, but he would take off his hat to us — ” 

The young soldier choked, and added with difficulty, 
“ I think I never saw so lovely a face. Poor little 
cousin ! ” 

“ And he overbalanced himself } ” 

“ Not when George saw him. I believe it was when 
the Horse Artillery were going by at the gallop. They 
say he got so much excited, and the dog barked, and 
they both fell. Some say there were people moving a 
drag, and some that he fell under the horse of a patrol. 
Anyhow, Pm afraid he’s very much hurt. They took 
him straight home in an ambulance-wagon to save time. 
Erskine went with him. I sent off a telegram for them 
for a surgeon from town, and Lady Jane promised aline 
if I send over this evening. O’Reilly must go after din- 
ner and wait for the news.” 


31 


Roose the Fair Day at E'en. 

O’Reilly, sitting stiffly amid the coming and going of 
the servants at the Hall, was too deeply devoured by anx- 
iety to trouble himself as to whether the footman’s sur- 
vey of his uniform bespoke more interest or contempt. 
But when — just after gun-fire had sounded from the 
distant camp — Jemima brought him the long-waited-for 
note, he caught the girl’s hand, and held it for some 
moments before he was able to say, “Just tell me. Miss; 
is it good news or bad that I’ll be carrying back in this 
bit of paper.-* ” And as Jemima only answered by sobs, 
he added, almost impatiently, “Will he live, dear.^ Nod 
your head if ye can do no more.” 

Jemima nodded, and the soldier dropped her hand, 
drew a long breath, and gave himself one of those 
shakes with which an Irishman so often throws off care. 

“ Ah, then, dry your eyes, darlin’ ; while there’s life 
there’s hope.” 

But Jemima sobbed still. 

“ The doctor — from London — says he may live a 
good while, but — but — he’s to be a cripple all his 
days ! ” 

“ Now wouldn’t I rather be meeting a tiger this even- 
ing than see the mistress’s face when she gets that 
news ! ” 

And O’Reilly strode back to the camp. 




CHAPTER V. 

“I will do it . . . for I am weak by nature, and very timorous, 
unless where a strong sense of duty holdeth and supporteth me. 
There God acteth, and not His creature.” — Lady Jane Grey. 

Leonard was to some extent a spoiled child ; but how 
much greater were the excuses for indulging every whim 
when the radiant loveliness of health had faded to the 
wan wistfulnBss of pain, when the young limbs bounded 
no more, and when his boyish hopes and hereditary am- 
bitions were cut off by the shears of a destiny that 
seemed drearier than death ? 

As soon as the poor child was able to be moved his 
parents took a place on the west coast of Scotland, and 
carried him thither. 

The neighborhood of Asholt had become intolerable 
to them for some time to come, and a soft climate and 
sea-breezes were recommended for his general health. 

Leonard flatly, and indeed furiously, refused to have 
any other nurse than Jemima. During the first crisis a 
skilled hospital nurse was engaged, but from the time 
that he fully recovered consciousness he would receive 
help from no hands but those of Jemima and Lady 
Jane. 

Lady Jane’s health became very much broken, but 
32 


The Tyranny of the Weak. 


33 


Jemima was fortunately possessed of a sturdy body and 
an inactive mind, and with a devotion little less than 
maternal she gave up both to Leonard’s service. 

He had a third slave of his bed-chamber — a black 
one — the Black Puppy, from whom he had resolutely 
refused to part, and whom he insisted upon having upon 
his bed, to the Doctor’s disgust. When months passed 
and the Black Puppy became a Black Dog, large and 
cumbersome, another effort was made to induce Leon- 
ard to part with him at night ; but he only complained 
bitterly. 

“ It is very odd that there cannot be a bed big enough 
for me and my dog. I am an invalid, and I ought to 
have what I want.” 

So The Sweep remained as his bed fellow. 

The Sweep also played the part of the last straw in 
the drama of Jemima’s life ; for Leonard would allow 
no one but his own dear nurse to wash his own dear 
dog; and odd hours, in which Jemima might have 
snatched a little rest and relaxation, were spent by her 
in getting the big dog’s still lanky legs into a tub, and 
keeping him there, and washing him, and drying and 
combing him into fit condition to spring back on to 
Leonard’s coverlet when that imperious little invalid 
called for him. 

It was a touching manifestation of the dog’s intelli- 
gence that he learned with the utmost care to avoid 
jostling or hurting the poor suffering little body of his 
master. 

Leonard’s fourth slave was his father. 

But the Master of the House had no faculty for nurs- 
ing, and was by no means possessed of the patience 
needed to persuade Leonard for his good. So he could 

D 


34 


The Story of a Short Life. 


only be with the child when he was fit to be read or 
played to, and later on, when he was able to be out of 
doors. And at times he went away out of sight of his 
son’s sufferings, and tried to stifle the remembrance of a 
calamity and disappointment, whose bitterness his own 
heart alone fully knew. 

After the lapse of nearly two years Leonard suddenly 
asked to be taken home. He was tired of the shore, 
and wanted to see if The Sweep remembered the park. 
He wanted to see if Uncle Rupert would look surprised 
to see him going about in a wheel-chair. He wanted 
to go to the Camp again, now the Doctor said he might 
have drives, and see if O’Reilly was alive still, and his 
uncle, and his aunt, and his cousin. He wanted father 
to play to him on their own organ, their very own 
organ, and — no, thank you ! — he did not want any 
other music now. 

For a time being at home seemed to revive him. He 
was in less pain, in better spirits, had more appetite, 
and was out a great deal with his dog and his nurse. 
But he fatigued himself, which made him fretful, and he 
certainly grew more imperious every day. 

His whim was to be wheeled into every nook and 
corner of the place, inside and out, and to show them 
to The Sweep. And who could have had the heart to 
refuse him anything in the face of that dread affliction 
which had so changed him amid the unchanged sur- 
roundings of his old home ? 

Jemima led the life of a prisoner on the tread-mill. 
When she wasn’t pushing him about she was going 
errands for him, fetching and carrying. She was 
“ never off her feet.” 

He moved about a little now on crutches, though he 


He that Tholes, overcomes. 


35 


had not strength to be very active with them, as some 
cripples are. But they became ready instruments of his 
impatience to thump the floor with one end, and not 
infrequently to strike those who offended him with the 
other. 

One day a cry came from below the window, and look- 
ing out Lady Jane saw Leonard, beside himself with pas- 
sion, raining blows like hail with his crutch upon poor 
Jemima ; The Sweep watching matters nervously from 
under a garden seat. 

Leonard had been irritable all day, and this was the 
second serious outbreak. The first had sent the Mas- 
ter of the House to town with a deeply-knitted brow. 

Vexed at being thwarted in some slight matter, when 
he was sitting in his wheel-chair by the side of his 
father in the library, he had seized a sheaf of papers 
tied together with amber-colored ribbon, and had torn 
them to shreds. It was a fair copy of the first two 
cantos of The SotiVs Satiety^ a poem on which the 
Master of the House had been engaged for some years. 
He had not touched it in Scotland, and was now begin- 
ning to work at it again. He could not scold his cripple 
child, but he had gone up to London in a far from com- 
fortable mood. And now Leonard was banging poor 
Jemima with his crutches! 

The Master of the House dined in town, and Leonard 
had tea with his mother in her very own room ; and The 
Sweep had tea there too. 

And when the old elms looked black against the 
primrose-colored sky, and it had been Leonard’s bed- 
time for half an hour past, the three were together still. 


36 The Story of a Short Life. 

“ I beg your pardon, Jemima, I am very sorry, and Fll 
never do so any more. I didn’t want to beg your par- 
don before, because I was naughty, and because you 
trode on my Sweep’s foot. But I beg your pardon 
now, because I am good — at least I am better, and I 
am going to try to be good.” 

Leonard’s voice was as clear as ever, and his manner 
as direct and forcible. Thus he contrived to say so 
much before Jemima burst in (she was putting him to 
bed) : — 

“ My lamb ! my pretty ! You’re always good — ” 

“ Don’t tell stories, Jemima ; and please don’t contra- 
dict me, for it makes me cross; and if I am cross I 
can’t be good ! and if I am not good all to-morrow I am 
not to be allowed to go downstairs after dinner. And 
there’s a V. C. coming to dinner, and I do want to see 
him more than I want anything else in all the world.” 


^ V. C : a wearer of Victoria Cross. The decoration for valor. 



CHAPTER VI. 

“ What is there in the world to distinguish virtues from dishonor, 
or that can make anything rewardable, but the labor and the danger, 
the pain and the difficulty ? ” — Jeremy Taylor. 

The V. C. did not look like a bloodthirsty warrior. 
He had a smooth, oval, olivart face, and dreamy eyes. 
He was not very big, and he was absolutely unpretend- 
ing. He was a young man and only by the courtesy 
of his manners escaped the imputation of being a shy 
young man. 

Before the campaign in which he won his cross he 
was most distinctively known in society as having a very 
beautiful voice and a very charming way of singing. 

After dinner the wheels of his chair and some little 
fuss at the drawing-room door announced that Leonard 
had come to claim his mother’s promise. And when 
Lady Jane rose and went to meet him, the V. C. fol- 
lowed her. 

“ There is my boy, of whom I told you. Leonard, this 
is the gentleman you have wished so much to see.” 

The V. C., who sang so easily, was not a ready 
speaker, and the sight of Leonard took him by surprise, 
and kept him silent. He had been prepared to pity 
and be good-natured to a lame child who had a whim 

37 


38 


The Story of a Short Lifco 


to see him ; but not for this vision of rare beauty, beau- 
tifully dressed, with crippled limbs lapped in Eastern 
embroideries by his color-loving father, and whose wan 
face and wonderful eyes were lambent with an intelli- 
gence so eager and so wistful, that the creature looked 
less like a morsel of suffering humanity than like a soul 
fretted by the brief detention of an all-but-broken chain. 

“ How do you do, V. C. I am very glad to see you. 
I wanted to see you more than anything in the world. 
I hope you don’t mind seeing me because I have been 
a coward, for I mean to be brave now ; and that is why 
I wanted to see you so much, because you are such a 
very brave man. The reason I was a coward was 
partly with being so cross when my back hurts, but 
particularly with hitting Jemima with my crutches, for 
no one but a coward strikes a woman. She trode on 
my dog’s toes. This is my dog. Please pat him ; he 
would like to be patted by a V. C. He is called The 
Sweep because he is black. He lives with me all along. 
I have hit him, but I hope I shall not be naughty again 
any more. I wanted to grow up into a brave soldier, 
but I don’t think, perhaps, that I ever can now; but 
mother says I can be a brave cripple. I would rather 
be a brave soldier, but I’m going to try to be a brave 
cripple. Jemima says there’s no saying what you can 
do till you try. Please show me your Victoria Cross.” 

“ It’s on my tunic, and that’s in my quarters in Camp. 
I’m so sorry.” 

“ So am I. I knew you lived in Camp. I like the 
Camp, and I want you to tell me all about your hut. 
Do you know my uncle. Colonel Jones Do you know 
my aunt, Mrs. Jones } And my cousin Mr. Jones } 
Do you know a very nice Irishman, with one good-con- 


Courage to Bear. 


39 


duct stripe, called O’Reilly ? Do you know my cousin 
Alan in the Highlanders ? But I believe he has gone 
away. I have so many things I want to ask you, and 
oh ! — those ladies are coming after us ! They want to 
take you away. Look at that ugly old thing with a 
hook-nose and an eye-glass, and a lace shawl and a 
green dress; she’s just like the Poll Parrot in the house- 
keeper’s room. But she’s looking at you. Mother ! 
Mother dear ! Don’t let them take him away. You 
did promise me, you know you did, that if I was good 
all to-day I should talk to the V. C. I can’t talk to 
him if I can’t have him all to myself. Do let us go 
into the library, and be all to ourselves. Do keep those 
women away, particularly the Poll Parrot. Oh, I hope 
I shan’t be naughty ! I do feel so impatient ! I was 
good, you know I was. Why doesn’t James come and 
show my friend into the library, and carry me out of 
my chair ^ ” 

“ Let me carry you, little friend, and we’ll run away 
together, and the company will say, ‘There goes a 
V. C. running away from a Poll Parrot in a lace 
shawl.’ ” 

“Ha! ha I You are nice and funny. But can you 
carry me } Take off this thing I Did you ever carry 
anybody that had been hurt ? ” 

“Yes, several people — much bigger than you.” 

“Men.?” 

“ Men.” 

“Men hurt like me, or wounded in battle .? ” 

“ Wounded in battle.” / 

“ Poor things I Did they die .? ” 

“ Some of them.” 

“ I shall die pretty soon, I believe. I meant to die 


40 


The Story of a Short Life. . 

young, but more grown-up than this, and in battle. 
About your age, I think. How old are you ? ” 

“ I shall be twenty-five in October.” 

“That’s rather old. I meant about Uncle Rupert’s 
age. He died in battle. He was seventeen. You 
carry very comfortably. Now we’re safe! Put me on 
the yellow sofa, please. I want all the cushions, 
because of my back. It’s because of my back, you 
know, that I can’t grow up into a soldier. I don’t 
think I possibly can. Soldiers do have to have such 
very straight backs, and Jemima thinks mine will never 
be straight again ‘on this side the grave.’ So I’ve got 
to try and be brave as I am ; and that’s why I wanted 
to see you. Do you mind my talking rather more than 
you.? I have so very much to say, and I’ve only a 
quarter of an hour, because of its being long past my 
bed-time, and a good lot of that has gone.” 

“ Please talk, and let me listen.” 

“Thank you. Pat The Sweep again, please. He 
thinks we’re neglecting him. That’s why he gets up 
and knocks you with his head.” 

“ Poor Sweep ! Good old dog 1 ” 

“Thank you. Now should you think that if I am 
very good, and not cross about a lot of pain in my back 
and my head — really a good lot — that would count up 
to be as brave as having one wound if I’d been a sol- 
dier .? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Mother says it would, and I think it might. Not a 
very big wound, of course, but a poke with a spear, or 
something of that sort. It is very bad sometimes, par- 
ticularly when it keeps you awake at night.” 

“ My little friend, that would count for lying out all 



f 


4 > 




42 The Story of a Short Life. 

night wounded on the field when the battle’s over. 
Soldiers are not always fighting.” 

“ Did you ever lie out for a night on a battle-field ? ” 

“ Yes, once.” 

“ Did the night seem very long ? ” 

“ Very long ; and we were very thirsty.” 

“ So am I sometimes, but I have barley-water and 
lemons by my bed, and jelly, and lots of things. You’d 
no barley-water, had you ? ” 

■ “No.” 

“ Nothing ? ” 

“ Nothing till the rain fell, then we sucked our 
clothes.” 

“ It would take a lot of my bad nights to count up to 
that ! But I think when I’m ill in bed I might count 
that like being a soldier in hospital ? ” 

“Of course.” 

“ I thought — no matter how good I got to be — 
nothing could ever count up to be as brave as a real 
battle, leading your men on and fighting for your coun- 
try, though you know you may be killed any minute. 
But mother says if I try very hard, and think of 

poor Jemima as well as myself, and keep brave in spite 
of feeling miserable, that then (particularly as I shan’t 
be very long before I do die) it would be as good as if I’d 
lived to be as old as Uncle Rupert, and fought bravely 
when the battle was against me, and cheered on my 
men, though I knew I could never come out of it alive. 
Do you think it could count up to that } Do you ? Oh, 
do answer me, and don’t stroke my head ! I get so im- 
patient. You’ve been in battles — do you ” 

“ I do, I do.” 

“You’re a V. C., and you ought to know. I suppose 


Upon Example: So is the Spirit Eased. 43 

nothing — not even if I could be good always, from this 
minute right away till I die — nothing could ever count 
up to the courage of a V. C. ? ” 

“ God knows it could, a thousand times over ! ” 

“ Where are you going ? Please don’t go. Look at 
me. They’re not going to chop the Queen’s head off, 
are they ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid ! What are you thinking about ? ” 

“Why, because — Look at me again. Ah! you’ve 
winked it away, but your eyes were full of tears ; and 
the only other brave man I ever heard of crying was Uncle 
Rupert, and that was because he knew they were going 
to chop the poor King’s head off.” 

“ That was enough to make anybody cry.” 

“ I know it was. But do you know now, when I’m 
wheeling about in my chair and playing with him, and 
he looks at me wherever I go ; sometimes for a bit I for- 
get about the King, and I fancy he is sorry for me. 
Sorry, I mean, that I can’t jump about, and creep under 
the table. Under the table was the only place where 
I could get out of the sight of his eyes. Oh, dear I 
There’s Jemima.” 

“ But you are going, to be good ? ” 

“ I know I am. And I’m going to do lessons again. 
I did a little French this morning — a story. Mother 
did most of it ; but I know what the French officer 
called the poor old French soldier when he went to see 
him in a hospital.” 

“ What .? ” 

** Mon brave. That means ‘my brave fellow.’ A 
nice name, wasn’t it.?” 

“ Very nice. Here’s Jemima.” 

“ I’m coming, Jemima. I’m not going to be naughty; 


44 


The Story of a Short Life. 


but you may go back to the chair, for this officer will 
carry me. He carries so comfortably. Come along, 
my Sweep. Thank you so much. You have put me 
in beautifully. Kiss me, please. Good night, V. C.” 

“Good night, mon brave"' 




CHAPTER VII. 

“‘I am a man of no strength at all of body, nor yet of mind; 
but would, if I could, though I can but crawl, spend my life in the 
pilgrims’ way. When I came at the gate that is at the head of the 
way, the lord of that place did entertain me freely. . . . gave me 
such things that were necessary for my journey, and bid me hope to 
the end. . . . Other brunts I also look for ; but this I have resolved 
on, to wit, to run when I can, to go when I cannot run, and to creep 
whenT cannot go. As to the main, I thank Him that loves me, I 
am fixed ; my way is before me, my mind is beyond the river that 
has no bridge, though I am as you see.’ 

“ And behold — Mr. Ready-to-halt came by with his crutches in 
his hand, and he was also going on Pilgrimage.” 

Bimy ail's Pilgrim'' s Progress. 

“ And if we tie it with the amber-colored ribbon, then 
every time I have it out to put in a new Poor Thing, I 
shall remember how very naughty I was, and how I 
spoilt your poetry.” 

“Then we’ll certainly tie it with something else,” said 
the Master of the House, and he jerked away the ribbon 
with a gesture as decisive as his words. “ Let bygones 
be bygones. If / forget it, you needn’t remember it ! ” 

“ Oh, but, indeed, I ought to remember it ; and I do 
think I better had — to remind myself never, never to 
be so naughty again ! ” 

“Your mother’s own son!” muttered the Master of 


45 


46 


The Story of a Short Life. 


the House ; and he added aloud : “ Well, I forbid you 
to remember it — so there!* It’ll be naughty if you do. 
Here’s some red ribbon. That should please you, as 
you’re so fond of soldiers.” 

Leonard and his father were seated side by side at a 
table in the library. The dog lay at their feet. 

They were very busy ; the Master of the House work- 
ing under Leonard’s direction, who, issuing his orders 
from his wheel-chair, was so full of anxiety and impor- 
tance, that when Lady Jane opened the library-door he 
knitted his brow and put up one thin little hand, in a 
comically old-fashioned manner, to deprecate interruption. 

“ Don’t make any disturbance. Mother dear, if you 
please. Father and I are very much engaged.” 

“ Don’t you think, Len, it would be kind to let poor 
Mother see what we are doing, and tell her about it ” 

Leonard pondered an instant. 

“Well — I don’t mind.” 

Then, as his mother’s arm came round him, he added 
impetuously : — 

“Yes, I should like to. You can show. Father, and 
ril do all the explaining.” 

The Master of the House displayed some sheets of 
paper, tied with ribbon, which already contained a good 
deal of his handiwork, including a finely-illuminated 
capital L on the title-page. 

“ It is to be called the Book of Poor Things, Mother 
dear. We’re doing it in bits first : then it will be bound. 
It’s a collection — a collection of Poor Things who’ve 
been hurt, like me; or blind, like the Organ-tuner; or 
had their heads — no, not their heads, they couldn’t go 
on doing things after that — had their legs or arms 
chopped off in battle, and are very good and brave 


47 


The Book of Poor Things. 

about it, and manage very, very nearly as well as people 
who have got nothing the matter with them. Father 
doesn’t think Poor Things is a good name. He wanted 
to call it Masters of Fate, because of some poetry. 
What was it. Father } ” 

“ Man is man and Master of his Fate,” quoted the 
Master of the House. 

‘‘Yes, that’s it. But I don’t understand it so well as 
Poor Things. They are Poor Things, you know, and 
of course we shall only put in brave Poor Things : not 
cowardly Poor Things. Father is doing the ruling, and 
printing, and illuminating for me. I thought of it when 
the Organ-tuner was here.” 

“ The Organ-tuner .? ” 

“Yes, I heard the organ, and I asked James to carry 
me in, and put me in the arm-chair close to the organ. 
And the Tuner was tuning, and he looked round, and 
James said, ‘ It’s the young gentleman,’ and the Tuner 
said, ‘ Good morning. Sir,’ and I said, ‘ Good morning. 
Tuner; go on tuning, please, for I want to see you do 
it.’ And he went on; and he dropped a tin thing, like 
a big extinguisher, on to the floor ; and he got down to 
look for it, and he felt about in such a funny way that I 
burst out laughing. I didn’t mean to be rude ; I couldn’t 
help it. And I said, ‘Can’t you see it.? It’s just under 
the table.’ And he said, ‘ I can’t see anything. Sir; I’m 
stone blind.’ And he said, perhaps I would be kind 
enough to give it him. And I said I was very sorry, 
but I hadn’t got my crutches, and so I couldn’t get out 
of my chair without some one to help me. And he was 
so awfully sorry for me, you can’t think ! He said he 
didn’t know I was more afflicted than he was; but I 
was awfully sorry for him, for I’ve tried shutting my 


48 


The Story of a Short Life. 


eyes ; and you can bear it just a minute, but then you 
must open them to see again. And I said, ‘ How can 
you do anything when you see nothing but blackness 
all along } And he says he can do well enough as long 
as he’s spared the use of his limbs to earn his own liveli- 
hood. And I said, ‘ Are there any more blind men, do 
you think, that earn their own livelihood } I wish I 
could earn mine ! ’ And he said, ‘ There are a good 
many blind tuners. Sir.’ And I said, ‘ Go on tuning, 
please : I like to hear you do it.’ And he went on, and 
I did like him so much. Do you know the blind tuner. 
Mother .? And don’t you like him very much } I think 
he is just what you think very good, and I think V. C. 
would think it nearly as brave as a battle to be afflicted 
and go on earning your own livelihood when you can 
see nothing but blackness all along. Poor man ! ” 

“I do think it very good of him, my darling, and 
very brave.” 

“ I knew you would. And then I thought perhaps 
there are lots of brave afflicted people — poor things ! 
and perhaps there never was anybody but me who 
wasn’t. And I wished I knew their names, and I 
asked the Tuner his name, and he told me. And I 
thought of my book, for a good idea — a collection, 
you know. And I thought perhaps, by degrees, I 
might collect three hundred and sixty-five Poor Things, 
all brave. And so I am making Father rule it like his 
Diary, and we’ve got the Tuner’s name down for the 
First of January; and if you can think of anybody else 
you must tell me, and if I think they’re afflicted enough 
and brave enough, Pll put them in. But I shall have 
to be rather particular, for we don’t want to fill up too 
fast. Now, Father, Fve done the explaining, so you 


‘49 


Noblesse Oblige. 

can show your part. Look, Mother, hasn’t he ruled it 
well ? There’s only one tiny mess ; and it was The 
Sweep shaking the table with getting up to be patted.” 

“ He has ruled it beautifully. But what a handsome 
L!” 

“ Oh, I forget. Wait a minute. Father ; the explain- 
ing isn’t quite finished. What do you think that L 
stands for. Mother ? ” 

“For Leonard, I suppose.” • 

“No, no! What fun I You’re quite wrong. Guess 
again.” 

“ Is it not the Tuner’s name ? ” 

“ Oh, no I He’s in the First of January — I told you 
so. And in plain printing. Father really couldn’t 
illuminate three hundred and sixty-five poor things I ” 

“ Of course he couldn’t. It was silly of me to think 
so.” 

“ Do you give up ? 

“ I must. I cannot guess.” 

“It’s the beginning of ' Lcetiis sorte mea' Ah, you 
know now! You ought to have guessed without my 
telling you. Do you remember.? I remember, and I 
mean to remember. I told Jemima that every night. 
I said, ‘ It means Happy with my fate, and in our 
family we have to be happy with it, whatever sort of a 
one it is.’ For you told me so. And I told the Tuner, 
and he liked hearing about it very much. And then 
he went on tuning, and he smiled so when he was 
listening to the notes, I thought he looked very happy ; 
so I asked him, and he said. Yes, he was always happy 
when he was meddling with a musical instrument. But 
I thought, most likely all brave poor things are happy 
with their fate, even if they can’t tune; and I asked 


50 


The Story of a Short Life. 


Father, and he said, ‘Yes,’ and so we are putting it 
into my collection — partly for that, and partly when 
the coat-of-arms is done to show that the book belongs to 
me. Now, Father dear, the explaining is really quite 
finished this time, and you may do all the rest of the 
show-off yourself ! ” 



[f’l 



CHAPTER VIII. 

‘‘ St. George ! a stirring life they lead, 

That have such neighbors near.” 

Marmion. 

“ Oh, Jemima ! Jemima ! I know you are very kind, 
and I do not mean to be impatient; but either you’re 
telling stories or you’re talking nonsense, and that’s a 
fact. How can you say that that blue stuff is a beauti- 
ful match, and will wash the exact color, and that you’re 
sure I shall like it when it’s made up with a cord and 
tassels, when it’s not the blue I want, and when you 
know the men in the hospital haven’t any tassels to 
their dressing-gowns at all! You’re as bad as that 
horrid shopman who made me so angry. If I had not 
been obliged to be good, I should have liked to hit him 
hard with my crutch, when he kept on saying he knew 
I should prefer a shawl-pattern lined with crimson, if I 
would let him send one. Oh, here comes Father I Now, 
that’s right ; he’ll know. Father dear, is this blue pat- 
tern the same color as that ? ” 

“ Certainly not. But what’s the matter, my child } ” 
It’s about my dressing-gown ; and I do get so tired 
about it, because people will talk nonsense, and won’t 
speak the truth, and won’t believe I know what I want 

51 


52 


The Story of a Short Life. 

myself. Now, I’ll tell you what I want. Do you know 
the Hospital Lines } ” 

“ In the Camp .? Yes.” 

“ And you’ve seen all the invalids walking about in 
blue dressing-gowns and little red ties .? ” 

“Yes. Charming bits of color.” 

“ Hurrah ! that’s just it. Now, Father, if you wanted 
a dressing-gown exactly like that — would you have one 
made of this } ” 

“Not if I knew it. Crude, coarse, staring — please 
don’t wave it in front of my eyes, unless you want to 
make me feel like a bull with a red rag before him ! ” 

“ Oh, Father dear, you are sensible ! (Jemima, throw 
this pattern away, please !) But you’d have felt far 
worse if you’d seen the shawl-pattern lined with crim- 
son. Oh, I do wish I could have been a bull that wasn’t 
oblige-d to be Icetus for half a minute, to give that shop- 
man just one toss ! But I believe the best way to do 
will be as O’Reilly says — get Uncle Henry to buy me 
a real one out of store, and have it made smaller for me. 
And I should like it ‘ out of store.’ ” 

From this conversation it will be seen that Leonard’s 
military bias knew no change. Had it been less strong 
it could only have served to intensify the pain of the 
heart-breaking associations which anything connected 
with the troops now naturally raised in his parents’ 
minds. But it was a sore subject that fairly healed 
itself. 

The Camp had proved a more cruel neighbor than the 
Master of the House had ever imagined in his forebod- 
ings ; but it also proved a friend. For if the high, am- 
bitious spirit, the ardent imagination, the vigorous will, 
which fired the boy’s fancy for soldiers and soldier-life, 


Military Manoeuvres. 


53 


had thus led to his calamity, they found in that sym- 
pathy with men of hardihood and lives of discipline, not 
only an interest that never failed and that lifted the suf- 
ferer out of himself, but a constant incentive to those 
virtues of courage and patience for which he struggled 
with touching conscientiousness. 

Then, without disparagement to the earnestness of his 
efforts to be good, it will be well believed that his par- 
ents did their best to make goodness easy to him. His 
vigorous individuality still swayed the plans of the house- 
hold, and these came to be regulated by those of the 
Camp to a degree which half annoyed and half amused 
its Master. 

The Asholt Gazette was delivered as regularly as the 
Times ; but on special occasions, the arrangements for 
which were only known the night before, O’Reilly, or 
some other Orderly, might be seen wending his way up 
the Elm Avenue by breakfast time, “with Colonel Jones’ 
compliments, and the Orders of the Day for the young 
gentleman.” And so many were the military displays 
at which Leonard contrived to be present, that the 
associations of pleasure and alleviation with Parades 
and Manoeuvres came at last almost to blot out the 
associations of pain connected with that fatal Field 
Day. 

He drove about a great deal, either among air-cushions 
in the big carriage or in a sort of perambulator of his 
own, which was all too easily pushed by any one, and 
by the side of which The Sweep walked slowly and con- 
tentedly, stopping when Leonard stopped, wagging his 
tail when Leonard spoke, and keeping sympathetic step 
to the invalid’s pace with four sinewy black legs, which 
were young enough and strong enough to have ranged 


54 


The Story of a Short Life. 

for miles over the heather hills and never felt fatigue. 
A true Dog Friend ! 

What the Master of the House pleasantly called “Our 
Military Mania ” seemed to have reached its climax 
during certain July manoeuvres of the regiments sta- 
tioned at Asholt, and of additional troops who lay out 
under canvas in the surrounding country. 

Into this mimic campaign Leonard threw himself heart 
and soul. His camp friends furnished him with early 
information of the plans of each day, so far as the gen- 
erals of the respective forces allowed them to get wind, 
and with an energy that defied his disabilities he drove 
about after “the armies,” and scrambled on his crutches 
to points of vantage where the carriage could not go. 

And the Master of the House went with him. 

The house itself seemed soldier-bewitched. Orderlies 
were as plentiful as rooks among the elm-trees. The staff 
clattered in and out, and had luncheon at unusual hours, 
and strewed the cedar-wood hall with swords and cocked 
hats, and made low bows over Lady Jane’s hand, and 
rode away among the trees. 

These were weeks of pleasure and enthusiasm for 
Leonard, and of not less delight for The Sweep ; but 
they were followed by an illness. 

That Leonard bore his sufferings better helped to con- 
ceal the fact that they undoubtedly increased ; and he 
over-fatigued himself and got a chill, and had to go to 
bed, and took The Sweep to bed with him. 

And it was when he could play at no “ soldier-game,” 
except that of “ being in hospital,” that he made up his 
mind to have a blue dressing-gown of regulation color 
and pattern, and met with the difficulties aforesaid in 
carrying out his whim. 



CHAPTER IX. 

“ Fills the room up of my absent child, 

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; 

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words. 

Remembers me of all his gracious parts. 

Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.” 

King John, Act iii. 

Long years after they were written, a bundle of letters 
lay in the drawer of a cabinet in Lady Jane’s morning- 
room, carefully kept, each in its own envelope, and every 
envelope stamped with the postmark of Asholt Camp. 

They were in Leonard’s hand-writing. A childish 
hand, though good for his age, but round and clear as 
his own speech. 

After much coaxing and considering, and after consult- 
ing with the doctors, Leonard had been allowed to visit 
the Barrack Master and his wife. After his illness he 
was taken to the seaside, which he liked so little that he 
was bribed to stay there by the promise that, if the 
Doctor would allow it, he should, on his return, have 
the desire of his heart, and be permitted to live for a 
time “in Camp,” and sleep in a hut. 

The Doctor gave leave. Small quarters would neither 
mar nor mend an injured spine; and if he felt the lack 

55 


56 The Story of a Short Life. 

of space and luxuries to which he was accustomed, he 
would then be content to return home. 

The Barrack Master’s hut only boasted one spare 
bed-chamber for visitors, and when Leonard and his 
dog were in it there was not much elbow-room. A sort 
of cupboard was appropriated for the use of Jemima, 
and Lady Jane drove constantly into Camp to see her 
son. Meanwhile he proved a very good correspondent, 
as his letters will show for themselves. 


Letter I. 

“ Barrack Master’s Hut. 

“ The Camp, Asholt. 

“ My dear, dear Mother, — I hope you are 
quite well, and Father also. I am very hp.ppy, 
and so is The Sweep. He tried sleeping on 
my bed last night, but there was not room, 
though I gave him as much as ever I could. 
So he slept on the floor. It is a camp bed, 
and folds up, if you want it to. We have 
nothing like it. It belonged to a real General. 
The General is dead. Uncle Henry bought it 
at his sale. You always have a sale if you die, 
and your brother-officers buy your things to pay 
your debts. Sometimes you get them very 
cheap. I mean the things. 

“ The drawers fold up, too. I mean the 
chest of drawers, and so does the wash-hand- 
stand. It goes into the corner, and takes up 
very little room. There couldn’t be a bigger 
one, or the door would not open — the one that 


57 


Life is Made up of Little Things. 

leads into the kitchen. The other door leads 
into a passage. I like having the kitchen next 
me. You can hear everything. You can hear 
O’Reilly come in the morning, and I call to 
him to open my door, he says, ‘ Yes, Sir,’ and 
opens it, and lets The Sweep out for a run, 
and takes my boots. And you can hear the 
tap of the boiler running with your hot water 
before she brings it, and you can smell the 
bacon frying for breakfast. 

“ Aunt Adelaide was afraid I should not 
like being woke up so early, but I do. I waked 
a good many times. First with the gun. It’s 
like a very short thunder, and shakes you. 
And then the bugles play. Father would like 
them ! And then right away in the distance — 
trumpets. And the air comes in so fresh at 
the window. And you pull up the clothes, if 
they’ve fallen off you, and go to sleep again. 
Mine had all fallen off, except the sheet, and 
The Sweep was lying on them. Wasn’t it clever 
of him to have found them in the dark t If I 
can’t keep them on. I’m going to have cam- 
paigning blankets; they are sewed up like a 
bag, and you get into them. 

“ What do you think I found on my coverlet 
when I went to bed } A real, proper, blue 
dressing-gown, and a crimson tie ! It came out 
of store, and Aunt Adelaide made it smaller 
herself. Wasn’t it kind of her ? 

“ I have got it on now. Presently I am 
going to dress properly, and O’Reilly is going 
to wheel me down to the stores. It will be 


S8 


The Story of a Short Life. 

great fun. My cough has been pretty bad, 
but it’s no worse than it was at home. 

“ There’s a soldier come for the letters, and 
they are obliged to be ready. 

“ I am, your loving and dutiful son, 

“ Leonard. 

“ P.S. — Uncle Henry says his father was 
very old-fashioned, and he always liked him to 
put ‘ Your dutiful son,’ so I put it to you. 

“ All these crosses mean kisses, Jemima told 
me.” 


Letter II. 

‘‘ . . . I WENT to church yesterday, though 
it was only Tuesday. I need not have gone 
unless I liked, but I liked. There is service 
every evening in the Iron Church, and Aunt 
Adelaide goes, and so do I, and sometimes 
Uncle Henry. There are not very many 
people who go, but they behave very well, 
what there are. You can’t tell what the offi- 
cers belong to in the afternoon, because they 
are in plain clothes ; but Aunt Adelaide thinks 
they were Royal Engineers, except one Com- 
missariat one, and A. D. C., and the Colonel 
of a regiment that marched in last week. You 
can’t tell what the ladies belong to unless you 
know them. 

“ You can always tell men. Some were Bar- 
rack Sergeants, and some were Sappers, and 
there were two Gunners, and an Army Hospi- 
tal Corps, and a Cavalry Corporal who came 


Church Parade. 


59 


all the way from the barracks, and sat near the 
door, and said very long prayers to himself at 
the end. And there were some schoolmasters, 
and a man with gray hair and no uniform, who 
mends the roofs and teaches in the Sunday 
School, and I forget the rest. Most of the 
Choir are Sappers and Commissariat men, 
and the boys are soldiers’ sons. The Sappers 
and Commissariat belong to our Brigade. 

“ There is no Sexton to our Church. He’s 
a Church Orderly. He has put me a kind of 
back in the corner of one of the Officers’ Seats, 
to make me comfortable in church, and a very 
high footstool. I mean to go every day, and as 
often as I can on Sundays, without getting too 
tired. 

“ You can go very often on Sunday mornings 
if you want to. They begin at eight o’clock, 
and go on till luncheon. There’s a fresh band, 
and a fresh chaplain, and a fresh sermon, and 
a fresh congregation every time. Those are 
Parade Services. The others are Voluntary 
Services, and I thought that meant for the 
Volunteers ; but O’Reilly laughed, and said, 
‘No, it only means that there’s no occasion to 
go to them at all ’ — he means unless you like. 
But then I do like. There’s no sermon on 
week days. Uncle Henry is very glad, and so 
am I. I think it might make my back ache. 

“ I am afraid, dear Mother, that you won’t 
be able to understand all I write to you from 
the Camp ; but if you don’t, you must ask me 
and I’ll explain. 


6o 


The Story of a Short Life. 


“ When I S2iy our quarters, remember I mean 
our hut ; and when I say rations it means bread 
and meat, and I’m not quite sure if it means 
coals and candles as well. But I think I’ll 
make you a Dictionary if I can get a ruled 
book from the Canteen. It would make this 
letter too much to go for a penny if I put all 
the words in I know. Cousin George tells me 
them when he comes in after mess. He told 
me the Camp name for Iron Church is Tin 
Tabernacle ; but Aunt Adelaide says it’s not, 
and I’m not to call it so, so I don’t. But that’s 
what he says. 

“ I like Cousin George very much. I like his 
uniform. He is very thin, particularly round the 
waist. Uncle Henry is very stout, particularly 
round the waist. Last night George came in 
after mess, and two other officers out of his regi- 
ment came too. And then another officer came 
in. And they chaffed Uncle Henry, and Uncle 
Henry doesn’t mind. And the other officer 
said, ‘ Three times round a Subaltern — once 
round a Barrack Master.’ And so they got 
Uncle Henry’s sword-belt out of his dressing- 
room, and George and his friends stood back 
to back, and held up their jackets out of the 
way, and the other officer put the belt right 
round them, all three, and told them not to 
laugh. And Aunt Adelaide said, ‘ Oh ! ’ and 
‘ You’ll hurt them.’ And he said, ‘ Not a bit of 
it.’ And he buckled it. So that shows. It 
was great fun. 

“ I am, your loving and dutiful son, 

“ Leonard. 


When Greek meets Greek. 


6i 


“ P.S. — The other officer is an Irish officer - 
at least, I think so, but I can’t be quite sure, 
because he won’t speak the truth. I said, ‘ You 
talk rather like O’Reilly ; are you an Irish 
soldier ? ’ And he said, ‘ I’d the misfortune to 
be quartered for six months in the County Cork, 
and it was the ruin of my French accent’ So 
I said, ‘ Are you a Frenchman ? ’ and they all 
laughed, so I don’t know. 

“P.S. No. 2. — My back has been very 
bad, but Aunt Adelaide says I have been, very 
good. This is not meant for swagger, but to 
let you know. 

(“ Swagger means boasting. If you’re a 
soldier, swagger is the next worst thing to run- 
ning away.) 

“P.S. No. 3. — I know another officer now. 
I like him. He is a D. A. Q. M. G. I would 
let you guess that if you could ever find it out, 
but you couldn’t It means Deputy-Assistant- 
Quarter-Master-General. He is not so grand 
as you would think ; a plain General is really 
grander. Uncle Henry says so, and he knows.” 

Letter HI. 

“ . . . I HAVE seen V. C. I have seen him 
twice. I have seen his cross. The first time 
was at the Sports. Aunt Adelaide drove me 
there in the pony carriage. We stopped at the 
Enclosure. The Enclosure is a rope, with a 
man taking tickets. The Sports are inside; 
so is the tent, with tea ; so are the ladies, in 


62 


The Story of a Short Life. 


awfully pretty dresses, and the officers walking 
round them. 

“ There’s great fun outside, at least, I should 
think so. There’s a crowd of people, and 
booths, and a skeleton man. I saw his pic- 
ture. I should like to have seen him, but Aunt 
Adelaide didn’t want to, so I tried to be Icetns 
without. 

“ When we got to the Enclosure there was 
a gentleman taking his ticket, and when he 
turned round he was V. C. Wasn’t it funny } 
So he came back and said, ‘ Why, here’s my 
little friend ! ’ And he said, ‘ You must let me 
carry you.’ And so he did, and put me among 
the ladies. But the ladies got him a good deal. 
He went and talked to lots of them, but I tried 
to be IcBtus without him ; and then Cousin 
George came and lots of others, and then the 
V. C. came back and showed me things about 
the Sports. 

“ Sports are very hard work : they make you 
so hot and tired ; but they are very nice to 
watch. The races were great fun, particularly 
when they fell in the water, and the men in 
sacks who hop, and the blindfolded men with 
wheel-barrows. Oh, they were so funny ! They 
kept wheeling into each other, all except one, 
and he went wheeling and wheeling right away 
up the field, all by himself and all wrong ! I 
did laugh. 

“ But what I liked best were the tent-peg- 
ging men, and most best of all, the Tug-of-War. 

“ The Irish officer did tent-pegging. He 


63 


The Tug of War. 

has the dearest pony you ever saw. He is so 
fond of it, and it is so fond of him. He talks 
to it in Irish, and it understands him. He cut 
off the Turk’s head, — not a real Turk, a sham 
Turk, and not a whole one, only the head stuck 
on a pole. 

“The Tug-of-War was splendid! Two sets 
of men pulling at a rope to see which is strong- 
est. They did pull ! They pulled so hard, both 
of them, with all their might and main, that 
we thought it must be a drawn battle. But at 
last one set pulled the other over, and then 
there was such a noise that my head ached 
dreadfully, and the Irish officer carried me 
into the tent and gave me some tea. And 
then we went home. 

“The next time I saw V. C. was on Sun- 
day at Parade Service. He is on the Staff, 
and wears a cocked hat. He came in with the 
General and the A. D. C., who was at church 
on Tuesday, and I was so glad to see him. 

“After church, everybody went about say- 
ing ‘ Good morning,’ and ‘ How hot it was in 
church ! ’ and V. C. helped me with my 
crutches, and showed me his cross. And the 
General came up and spoke to me, and I saw 
his medals, and he asked how you were, and I 
said, ‘Quite well, thank you.’ And then he 
talked to a lady with some little boys dressed 
like sailors. She said how hot it was in church, 
and he said, ‘I thought the roof was coming 
off with that last hymn.’ And she said, ‘My 
little boys call it the Tug-of-War Hymn; they 


64 The Story of a Short Life. 

are very fond of it/ And he said, ‘The men 
seem very fond of it/ And he turned round 
to an officer I didn’t know, and said, ‘ They ran 
away from you that last verse but one/ And 
the officer said, ‘Yes, sir, they always do; so I 
stop the organ and let them have it their own 
, way/ 

“ I asked Aunt Adelaide, ‘ Does that officer 
play the organ ? ’ And she said, ‘ Yes, and he 
trains the choir. He’s coming in to supper.’ 
So he came. If the officers stay sermon on 
Sunday evenings, they are late for mess. So 
the Chaplain stops after Prayers, and anybody 
that likes to go out before sermon can. If they 
stay sermon, they go to supper with some of 
the married officers instead of dining at mess. 

“So he came. I liked him awfully. He 
plays like Father, only I think he can play 
more difficult things. 

“He says, ‘Tugof-War Hymn’ is the very 
good name for that hymn, because the men are 
so fond of it they all sing, and the ones at the 
bottom of the church ‘ drag over ’ the choir and 
the organ. 

“He said, ‘I’ve talked till I’m black in the 
face, and all to no purpose. It would try the 
patience of a saint.’ So I said, ‘ Are you a 
saint.?’ And he laughed and said, ‘No, I’m 
afraid not; I’m only a kapellmeister.’ So I 
call him ‘ Kapellmeister.’ I do like him. 

“ I do like the Tug-of-War Hymn. It be- 
gins, ‘The Son of God goes forth to war.’ 

Kapellmeister: choir master. 


A Short Letter. 


65 


That’s the one. But we have it to a tune of 
our own, on Saints’ Days. The verse the men 
tug with is, ‘ A noble army, men and boys.’ I 
think they like it, because it’s about the army ; 
and so do I. 

“ I am, your loving and dutiful son, 

“ Leonard. 

“P.S. — I call the ones with cocked hats 
and feathers, ‘ Cockatoos.’ There was another 
Cockatoo who walked away with the General. 
Not very big. About the bigness of the stuffed 
General in that Pawnbroker’s window ; and I 
do think he had quite as many medals. I 
wanted to see them. I wish I had. He looked 
at me. He had a very gentle face ; but I was 
afraid of it. Was I a coward ? 

“ You remember what these crosses are, don’t 
you.? I told you.” 


Letter IV. 

“ This is a very short letter. It’s only to ask 
you to send my book of Poor Things by the 
Orderly who takes this, unless you are quite 
sure you are coming to see me to-day. 

“ A lot of officers are collecting for me, and 
there’s one in the Engineers can print very 
well, so he’ll put them in. 

“ A Colonel with only one arm dined here 
yesterday. You can’t think how well he man- 
ages, using first his knife and then his fork. 


F 


66 


The Story of a Short Life. 


and talking so politely all the time. He has 
all kinds of dodges, so as not to give trouble 
and do everything for himself. I mean to put 
him in. 

“ I wrote to Cousin Alan, and asked him to 
collect for me. I like writing letters, and I do 
like getting them. Uncle Henry says he hates 
a lot of posts in a day. I hate posts when 
there’s nothing for me. I like all the rest. 

“ Cousin Alan wrote back by return. He 
says he can only think of the old chap, whose 
legs were cut off in battle : — 

‘ And when his legs were smitten off, 

He fought upon his stumps ! ’ 

It was very brave, if it’s true. Do you think 
it is} He did not tell me his name. 

“ Your loving and dutiful son, 

“ Leonard. 

“ P.S. — I am Icetiis sorte mea^ and so is The 
Sweep.” 


C••ra 



CHAPTER X. 

“ I have fought a good fight. I have finished my course. I have 
kept the faith. Henceforth — ” i Tim.iw.y. 

It was Sunday. Sunday, the tenth of November — 
St. Martin’s Day. 

The Brigade for the Iron Church paraded early (the 
sunshine and sweet air seemed to promote alacrity). 
And after the men were seated their officers still lin- 
gered outside, chatting with the ladies and the Staff, as 
these assembled by degrees, and sunning themselves in 
the genial warmth of St. Martin’s Little Summer. 

The V. C. was talking with the little boys in sailor 
suits and their mother, when the officer who played the 
organ came towards them. 

“ Good morning. Kapellmeister ! ” said two or three 
voices. 

Nicknames were common in the camp, and this one 
had been rapidly adopted. 

Ye look cloudy this fine morning. Kapellmeister ! ” 
cried the Irish officer. Got the toothache ? ” 

The Kapellmeister shook his head, and forced a 
smile which rather intensified than diminished the 
gloom of a countenance which did not naturally lend 

S/. Martinis Little Summer : Indian Summer. 

67 


68 


The Story of a Short Life. 


itself to lines of levity. Was he not a Scotchman and 
also a musician ? His lips smiled in answer to the chaff, 
but his sombre eyes were fixed on the V. C. They had 
— as some eyes have — an odd, summoning power, and 
the V. C. went to meet him. 

When he said, “ I was in there this morning,” the 
V. C.’s eyes followed the Kapellmeister’s to the Barrack 
Master’s hut, and his own face fell. 

“ He wants the Tug-of-War Hymn,” said the Kapell- 
meister. 

“ He’s not coming to church ? ” 

“Oh, no; but he’s set his heart on hearing the Tug- 
of-War Hymn through his bedroom window ; and it 
seems the Chaplain has promised we shall have it to- 
day. It’s a most amazing thing,” added the Kapell- 
meister, shooting out one arm with a gesture common 
to him when oppressed by an idea, — “ it’s a most amaz- 
ing thing! For I think, if I were in my grave, that 
hymn — as these men bolt with it — might make me 
turn in my place of rest ; but it’s the last thing I should 
care to hear if I were ill in bed ! However, he wants 
it, poor lad, and he asked me to ask you if you would 
turn outside when it begins, and sing so that he can 
hear your voice and the words.” 

“ Oh, he can never hear me over there I ” 

“ He can hear you fast enough I It’s quite close. 
He begged me to ask you, and I was to say it’s his last 
Sunday.” 

There was a pause. The V. C. looked at the little 
“ Officers’ Door,” which was close to his usual seat, 
which always stood open in summer weather, and half 
in half out of which men often stood in the crush of a; 
Parade Service. There was no difficulty in the matter 


Es gilt am Ende doch nur Vorvvarts ! 69 

except his own intense dislike to anything approaching 
to display. Also he had become more attached than he 
could have believed possible to the gallant-hearted child 
whose worship of him had been flattery as delicate as it 
was sincere. It was no small pain to know that the 
boy lay dying — a pain he would have preferred to bear 
in silence. 

“ Is he very much set upon it ? ” 

“ Absolutely.” 

“ Is she — is Lady Jane there ? ” 

“ All of them. He can’t last the day out.” 

“When will it be sung — that hymn, I mean.^^” 

“ I’ve put it on after the third Collect.” 

“All right.” 

The V. C. took up his sword and went to his seat, and 
the Kapellmeister took up his and went to the organ. 

* * * * 

In the Barrack Master’s hut my hero lay dying. 
His mind was now absolutely clear, but during the night 
it had wandered — wandered in a delirium that was per- 
haps some solace of his sufferings, for he had believed 
himself to be a soldier on active service, bearing the 
brunt of battle and the pain of wounds ; and when fever 
consumed him, he thought it was the heat of India that 
parched his throat and scorched his skin, and called 
again and again in noble raving to imaginary comrades 
to keep up heart and press forward. 

About four o’clock he sank into stupor, and the Doc- 
tor forced Lady Jane to go and lie down, and the 
Colonel took his wife away to rest also. 

At Gun-flre Leonard opened his eyes. For some 
minutes he gazed straight ahead of him, and the Mas- 

After all the main thing is progress. 


70 


The Story of a Short Life. 


ter of the House, who sat by his bedside, could not be 
sure whether he were still delirious or no ; but when 
their eyes met he saw that Leonard’s senses had re- 
turned to him, and kissed the wan little hand that was 
feeling about for The Sweep’s head in silen,ce that he 
almost feared to break. 

Leonard broke in by saying, “ When did you bring 
Uncle Rupert to Camp, Father dear.?” 

“Uncle Rupert is at home, my darling; and you are 
in Uncle Henry’s hut.” 

“ I know I am ; and so is Uncle Rupert. He is at the 
end of the room there. Can’t you see him .? ” 

“No, Len ; I only see the wall, with your text on it 
that poor old Father did for you.” 

“ My ‘ Goodly heritage,’ you mean .? I can’t see that 
now. Uncle Rupert is in front of it. I thought you put 
him there. Only he’s out of his frame, and — it’s very 
odd ! ” 

“ What’s odd, my darling ? ” 

“ Some one has wiped away all the tears from his 
eyes.” 

* * * * * * * 

“ Hymn two hundred and sixty-three : ‘ Fight the 
good fight of faith.’ ” 

The third Collect was just ended, and a prolonged 
and somewhat irregular Amen was dying away among 
the choir, who were beginning to feel for their hymn- 
books. 

The lack of precision, the “ dropping shots ” style in 
which that Amen was delivered, would have been more 
exasperating to the Kapellmeister, if his own attention 
had not been for the moment diverted by anxiety to 
know if the V. C. remembered that the time had come. 


Beyond the Veil. 


71 


As the Chaplain gave out the hymn, the Kapell- 
meister gave one glance of an eye, as searching as it 
was sombre, round the corner of that odd little curtain 
which it is the custom to hang behind an organist ; 
and this sufficing to tell him that the V. C. had not for- 
gotten, he drew out certain very vocal stops, and bend- 
ing himself to manual and pedal, gave forth the popular 
melody of the “ Tug-of-War Hymn ” with a precision 
indicative of a resolution to have it sung in strict time, 
or know the reason why. 

And as nine hundred and odd men rose to their feet 
with some clatter of heavy boots and accoutrements the 
V. C. turned quietly out of the crowded church, and 
stood outside upon the steps, bare-headed in the sun- 
shine of St Martin’s Little Summer, and with the tiniest 
of hymn-books between his finger and thumb. 

Circumstances had made a soldier of the V. C., but 
• by nature he was a student. When he brought the little 
hymn-book to his eyes to get a mental grasp of the 
hymn before he began to sing it, he committed the first 
four lines to an intelligence sufficiently trained to hold 
them in remembrance for the brief time that it would 
take to sing them. Involuntarily his active brain did 
more, and was crossed by a critical sense of the crude, 
barbaric taste of childhood, and a wonder what consola- 
tion the suffering boy could find in these gaudy lines : — 

The Son of God goes forth to war 
A kingly crown to gain ; 

His blood-red banner streams afar : 

Who follows in His train ? ” 

But when he brought the little hymn-book to his eyes 
to take in the next four lines, they startled him with the 
revulsion of a sudden sympathy; and lifting his face 


72 


The Story of a Short Life. 


toward the Barrack Master’s hut, he sang — as he 
rarely sang in drawing-rooms, even words the most felici- 
tous to melodies the most sweet — sang not only to 
the delight of dying ears, but so that the Kapellmeister 
himself heard him, and smiled as he heard : — 

“ Who best can drink His cup of woe 
Triumphant over pain. 

Who patient bears His cross below. 

He follows in His train.” 

* * * * * * * 

On each side of Leonard’s bed, like guardian angels, 
knelt his father and mother. At his feet lay The Sweep, 
who now and then lifted a long, melancholy nose and 
anxious eyes. 

At the foot of the bed stood the Barrack Master. 
He had taken up this position at the request of the 
Master of the House, who had avoided any further allu- 
sion to Leonard’s fancy that their Naseby Ancestor had 
come to Asholt Camp, but had begged his big brother- 
in-law to stand there and blot out Uncle Rupert’s 
Ghost with his substantial body. 

But whether Leonard perceived the ruse, forgot 
Uncle Rupert, or saw him all the same, by no word or 
sign did he ever betray. 

Near the window was Aunt Adelaide, with her Prayer- 
book, following the service in her own orderly and pious 
fashion ; sometimes saying a prayer aloud at Leonard’s 
bidding, and anon replying to his oft-repeated inquiry : 
“ Is it the third Collect yet. Aunty dear .? ” 

She had turned her head, more quickly than usual, to 
speak, when, clear and strenuous on vocal stops, came 
the melody of the “ Tug-of-War Hymn. ” 


Thus to the Stars. 73 

I 

“ There ! There it is ! Oh, good Kapellmeister ! 
Mother dear, please go to the window and see if V. C. 
is there, and wave your hand to him. Father dear, lift 
me up a little, please. Ah, now I hear him ! Good 
V. C. ! I don’t believe you’ll sing better than that when 
you’re promoted to be an angel. Are the men singing 
pretty loud ? May I have a little of that stuff to keep 
me from coughing. Mother dear.? You know I am 
not impatient; but I do hope, please God, I shan’t 
die till I’ve just heard them tug that verse once 
more ! ” 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

The sight of Lady Jane had distracted the V. C.’s 
thoughts from the hymn. He was singing mechani- 
cally, when he became conscious of some increasing 
pressure and irregularity in the time. Then he remem- 
bered what it was. The soldiers were beginning to tug. 

In a moment more the organ stopped, and the V. C. 
found himself, with over three hundred men at his 
back, singing without accompaniment, and in unison — 

“ A noble army — men and boys, 

The matron and the maid, 

Around their Saviour’s throne rejoice, 

In robes of white arrayed.” 

The Kapellmeister conceded that verse to the shouts 
of the congregation ; but he invariably reclaimed control 
over the last. 

Even now, as the men paused to take breath after 
their “tug,” the organ spoke again, softly, but seraphi- 
cally, and clearer and sweeter above the voices behind 
him rose the voice of the V. C., singing to his little 
friend — 


74 


The Story of a Short Life. 



“ They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven. 
Through peril, toil, and pain” — 

The men sang on ; but the V. C. stopped, 
as if he had been shot. For a man’s hand 
had come to the Barrack Master’s window 
and pulled the white blind down. 


NOTE. 

Mrs. Ewing, the daughter of a clergyman, was born in York- 
shire, England, in 1841, and died in 1885. Her name was Juliana 
Horatia Gatty, and all her brothers and sisters had literary tastes. 
She edited magazines and wrote many poems, plays, and books for 
children, all of which have become famous among boys and girls 
wherever the English language is spoken. She often wove actual 
events and places into her stories ; in “ J^^ckanapes ” she introduced 
the battle of Waterloo — and in this story she has pictured an actual 
and very well known place ; if ever you go to Aldershot, in Surrey, 
England, you will have no difficulty in recognizing it as the original 
of Asholt, where the scene of this little story is for the most part 
laid. Aldershot is a permanent camp of military exercise and in- 
struction, and there are usually 1 5,000 to 25,000 soldiers of all arms 
in camp all the year round. 


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